by Annie Clarke
Even now it made him laugh, just as he had laughed then. Mrs Smith had hummed as she washed him, while Mrs Hall came along after, drying. Mrs Bedley, not to be left out, had ordered, ‘Turn over.’ He had submitted and turned, thinking of England, as the joke said.
He realised then that his father was pointing to his study. Ralph followed, and now he wished he’d had more than just a measly sip of elderberry wine, for his heart was beating too fast, sweat was rolling down his back and his hands were trembling. He filled his mind with trivia, telling himself he should have taken the poker to the banked-up fire after all, and at least added a lump or two of coal.
‘Sit yourself down, Ralph.’ His father was leaning back in his armchair to the left of the fireplace. ‘So kind of you to light the sitting-room fire. Did you manage to do the same in the children’s rooms?’
Ralph lowered himself into the opposite armchair. ‘Oh yes, and yours. The fireguards are up.’ He could feel the beating of his heart right up to his ears now, because here they both were, and he had to tell his father that he was a traitor. A traitor to whom Professor Smythe had offered restitution. His father had said he knew, but how could he know it all?
His father’s cigar ash was more than an inch long and seemed about to fall, but just in time Reginald tapped it into the ashtray balanced on the arm of his chair, saying, ‘I drove the little blighters home with my cigar newly lit and they coughed all the way, just to make the point that it wasn’t to their liking.’
It was so unexpected that Ralph burst out laughing, and it broke the fear, because his father was saying now, ‘I suppose you don’t remember how you used to be the same. Sometimes I’d sit you on my knee and you’d steer the old Rolls-Royce down the drive. You hated the smell of the cigar smoke, so one day I didn’t light it and as we reached the bottom of the slope you said, “Daddy, I do after all like it when you smoke. The smell is safety.” Perhaps one day the evacuees will think the same. Some are rather like you, Ralph. Melanie, Eva and Marty are without parents, and two others without a mother. The bombing, of course – it brought down their terraced houses. They were all pulled out – well, obviously – whereupon the rescue team called, “Who claims these bairns?” Answer came there none.’
He inhaled, withdrew his cigar and looked at the glowing tip. ‘I understand that you felt abandoned when your mother died and I married Sophia. I am so sorry, because into the vacuum of abandonment crept other things, and it was I who created that vacuum. I should have been here for you more often, not away on business. I should have convinced your mother to remain in Massingham more often. I should have waited longer before marrying Sophia. So many things I did, and others I did not do. So many things you have done that you should not have done. If for no other reason than that, I understand, and my dearest boy, I am here to help you.’
It was the banked-up fire his father looked at, its ash, its grey embers, as he continued: ‘It’s most extraordinary, isn’t it, Ralph, how one can bank up a fire in the late morning and yet here we are, ten o’clock at night, still feeling a vestige of heat. I wonder …’ He placed his cigar in the ashtray, reached forward, took up the poker and, with deft sure strokes, pierced the embers and ash to create air holes.
He propped the poker against the coal scuttle, then picked up the bellows and gently squeezed, once, then twice. Slowly the embers brightened. ‘There,’ he said, ‘you see. It appeared dead, but in reality the embers, when helped, came back to life.’
He looked at Ralph. ‘A bit like people. They can be subsumed by something that ultimately renders them grey and defeated. They just need help to allow them to live and thrive again.’
They looked at one another and after a long moment Ralph whispered, ‘You really know it all, don’t you?’
His father nodded. ‘As much as you have told Auberon. Is there more?’
Ralph told him all of it. The lies about the British Union of Fascists uniform that his father had found hanging in Ralph’s wardrobe just before returning to school. He had said he was keeping it for someone else and would return it. Now he explained it had been his. While Reginald absorbed this news, Ralph wondered what he’d—Then he remembered exactly what he’d done with it – hidden it with a load of stuff he’d outgrown in a trunk in the attic. But who’d look? Surely no one. He’d sort it out, after he’d spoken to his father. No, that wasn’t right, for what could he do with it at night? He’d have to do it tomorrow instead, bring himself to touch it, take it out without anyone seeing, and turn it into ashes.
Ralph came back to the present with a start as his father said, ‘Carry on.’ He was adding kindling and coal, so that the flames leapt and curled. On and on, Ralph talked – of Tim Swinton, once a lad from the backstreets of Sledgeford, but now in charge of a Fascist cell, and also in charge of Ralph Massingham.
His father’s grip tightened on his cigar, which he had been about to lift to his mouth.
Ralph continued describing his act of sabotage that had killed Fran and Sarah’s fathers. Reginald merely nodded. Ah, so he knew. Ralph drove on, and ended with the deliberately failed attempt to break into the munitions complex, and the sadness he had felt when Mr Swinton had asked at the wedding if he knew where his son was and he had lied and said no.
‘But of course it wasn’t quite a lie, for I don’t know where he is, but I do know what he is. But how could I tell Mr Swinton that?’ Ralph drew out a packet of Player’s, offering them to his father, who declined, waving his cigar at him. Ralph lit one for himself, blowing the smoke up towards the ceiling, but, smelling the cigar realised it was indeed the scent of safety.
‘There you are, Father. You have a traitor for a son, and Professor Smythe has offered me a chance to make some of it right, but only some, for I have the deaths of two good men to bear. For a while I was scared that I couldn’t pretend, couldn’t carry on with Tim as though I don’t hate myself, and him, and the whole damnable ideology.’
His father was still staring at the fire and Ralph, too, watched the flames as they licked the coal. He added a few more lumps, replaced the tongs and resumed his seat. Together they watched the coal as it eventually glowed red-hot. Ralph said, ‘Daddy, you didn’t fail me. I failed myself. I was all that was wrong in a son, and I am most heartily sorry.’
His father threw his cigar onto the fire. ‘No, you are my son. I love you, Sophia loves you. You have been misguided. But I should have realised when I found that damned uniform. You were a boy, and boys do stupid things. There were Communist meetings too, and many went to both to see what was what. Such a shame you didn’t—’
He stopped, shook his head. ‘No, we must draw a line and it must be put right, but only you can do that, though I will be there beside you all the way, Ralph.’ He paused. ‘Sophia will know nothing of this.’ It was not a question, but a command.
Ralph nodded, unable to speak, because he was not alone, though he deserved to be. No, his father was with him. He threw the remains of his cigarette into the fire, as the gulping sobs came. He heard the door open, but his father said softly, ‘Not now, my dear.’ The door closed again and then Ralph heard his father rise and felt his arm around his shoulders as Reginald sat on the arm of the chair. Ralph leaned into him, and his father said, ‘Hush, my lad, hush, I’m here.’
Eventually, Ralph dragged his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face, still leaning against the rock that was his father. ‘I need to make a phone call, Father. I’ll just have to be good enough.’
He stood, told his father the details of Tim’s telephone call to the box on Main Street, then made his way to the desk, drawing from his trouser pocket Auberon’s telephone number. His father said, ‘Auberon is in Newcastle and will be with us tomorrow morning. Albright has been told you are on urgent Massingham business and will report on Tuesday. When you telephone Smythe, best you tell him that “Barkis is willin’.” That’s all, just in case others are listening. I do so enjoy Dickens, don’t you?’
CHAPTER TH
REE
Monday, 2 March
Sarah stirred in her mam’s front room, now a bedroom, and whispered, ‘Sarah Hall, née Bedley.’ She smiled, reached up and ran a finger down Stan’s face. He woke, gripped her hand, kissed her palm. ‘I love you, pet, more than I did yesterday, but not as much as I will tomorrow.’
She kissed his mouth. The sheet fell from her, and he held her to him. She ran her hands over his blue-ridged hewer’s scars and breathed in the scent of his skin. ‘I can hardly believe we’re really man and wife,’ she murmured, remembering the night, the passion, the sense of really coming home. Aye, she thought, well, she was doubly home, here in the front room of her mam’s house, with her husband who made her feel safe as houses.
She had expected it to feel strange, being downstairs, with him, but it wasn’t because her life was so glorious, Stan was so wonderful, and …
They kissed. The knock on the door startled them. Her mother called, ‘No rest for the wicked, ’tis three thirty in the morning, there’s a working day ahead of you and if you divint get a wriggle on, you’ll be late for the bus, pet. And I reckon Bert’s sore head will make him worse’n a bear, and Mrs Oborne won’t be any better. I’m keeping Viola here with me, for she’s not up to the sewing room, no matter what the Labour Exchange people said when the co-op went to complain. War is war, they said, but needed a good slap for them words. So, no, she’s not going in, and that’s that.’
‘Right, Mam, be there in a minute.’
Stan was kissing her neck, but she threw off the bedclothes, dragging herself from him. It was still dark and for that she was relieved, for she might love him, might have lain with him, but him seeing her naked was just … There was another rat-a-tat on the door. It was Viola.
‘Whatever your mam said, I’m up and coming to work. ’Tisn’t fair on Mr Swinton, who’s expecting me, and anyway, he saw me playing the saxophone in the service and even if it were far from perfect because I’m missing a couple of fingers on one hand, I reckon me mam would have said, “If you can do that, you can get into work, bonny lass.” Besides, I need the money. I can’t live here for free.’
Sarah gripped Stan’s arm. ‘She can’t go in.’
He was reaching for his work kegs. ‘Best let her make up her own mind, pet. It’s what you would do, and don’t even think of telling me you wouldn’t, or I’ll have to deal with you.’ He was laughing as he reached for her.
She stood, dodging his arms, and whispered, ‘Oh no you don’t, or we’ll end up in mischief, so we will.’
Viola and Sarah ran along the back lane of the terrace, Viola pulling her woolly hat over her hair, Sarah tying her headscarf, though why she bothered she didn’t know, as strands were already escaping. But when didn’t they? They had to dodge the groups of pitmen clomping in their boots towards Auld Hilda, and as she ran, Sarah looked over her shoulder and saw her man in the moonlight, her husband, her Stan, leaning against the Bedleys’ back wall, Woodbine in his mouth, his cap tilting to the left, waiting for Sid and Norm to come along. He waved to her and shouted above the chatting and coughing of the pitmen, ‘Be safe, bonny lass, and you an’ all, Viola.’
Sarah stopped, turned, and walked backwards for a few paces. ‘Be safe, lovely lad.’ She spun round and ran on, for she could hear Bert tooting, and then Auld Hilda’s hooter drowned out all else. It was as it ever was, even though she was different, for she had been with her husband for the first time. The word ‘husband’ echoed in her head as the two of them slowed, turned into Main Street and saw Fran and Beth loitering, watching for them.
Viola laughed. ‘Come on.’
All four broke into a run and tore towards the bus stop and the queue that was fast disappearing inside the idling bus. Fran panted as they arrived, ‘Howay, girls, get a move on, for it’s all aboard the Factory charabanc with its laughing joking driver.’
Mrs Oborne stopped, one foot on the bus, the other on the pavement, her headscarf tied round her grey hair. She grimaced. ‘No shouting’s the first order of the day, our Fran, and it’s all your fault, Mrs Sarah Hall, for getting wed yesterday and putting on a good spread, then forcing that Stevie’s beer and elderberry wine down our throats.’
Bert’s voice boomed from his cab, ‘Get your big arse on this bus, Tilly Oborne, and shut your noise, or you are walking to work, missus. Me head’s known better days.’
Beth was shrieking with laughter. ‘Serves you right, our Bert. A right load of beer went down your throat and I divint see no forcing involved.’
‘Aye, well,’ shouted Bert, ‘one more word and you’re another who’ll be walking.’
As they waited, all Sarah could think of was being called Mrs Hall. She played it through her mind – Mrs Sarah Hall, Mr and Mrs Stanhope Hall – and already it seemed more natural than Bedley. Would it be the same for Fran when she became a Bedley?
Bert hooted again. ‘On you get, girls, quick, quick.’
But Sid and Norm were running towards them, looking pale and sweaty even in the moonlight. They slowed, finally stopping when they reached them, Sid bending over, his hands on his knees, coughing. He groaned. ‘You and our Davey had better break my arms if you see me pouring Stevie’s special brew down my throat at your nuptials, our Fran, for I’m not going through this hangover again.’
Norm tipped his cap. ‘Me an’ all, but I reckon we might drag your Stan out to the club tonight – what d’you think of that, Mrs Hall? Hair of the dog, eh?’
The lads set off at a run again.
It was Sarah laughing now as she called after them, ‘I’ll be waiting with a rolling pin, you see if I won’t.’
Bert was revving the bus as Fran yanked Sarah up the steps and dragged her down the aisle, to the cheers and claps of the women as they drove off. Mrs Oborne shouted, ‘You got that tyre sorted, Bert? Davey said it were bald, but then so are you at the back, so I reckon you’ll like the company.’
‘One more word,’ yelled Bert, ‘I promise you, one more word, Tilly Oborne, and out you go. And aye, the depot is getting one sorted today. Just need to go steady and miss any ice in the meantime. That suit you? And while we’re about it, leave me hair out of it.’
Tilly Oborne blew a raspberry, then said, ‘That’ll do nicely, Bert. I like to know I’m safe.’
She conducted while the girls all laughed and called out, ‘Then best get off the bus now.’
Viola, Sarah and Fran followed Beth to the back seat. Once there, the other passengers called, ‘A grand wedding tea, lass.’
‘I had a couple of pheasant sandwiches, and too many elderberry wines.’
‘Lovely scones and all. Spread with honey, eh?’
Maisie stood, looking towards the back seat. ‘Shame you’ll be back too late to wash his back in the tin bath, Sarah.’
Sarah blushed, but whispered to Fran, ‘Aye, it is too.’
It was Fran’s turn to blush as she whispered, ‘Oh, our Sarah, what in the world’s come over little old you.’ She put up her hand. ‘No, on second thoughts, don’t tell me, please, please.’ This was followed by more laughter from the bus.
At last they left Massingham and sank back, relaxing. As they passed the Hanging Tree, Sarah said, ‘Shouldn’t have run with our bruises. Hurts like a right pig, it does. But Viola, it’s worse for you. Are you all right?’
Viola nodded. ‘Course I am, I’m with you all, and I’m only in the sewing section, so that’s canny.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ muttered Fran. ‘You’ll come back off shift with that bandage seeping blood again from guiding the material. We need to find you something else, something outside the Factory, and ignore the Labour Exchange.’
The others nodded while Viola covered her damaged hand with her other one and shook her head. ‘Stop fussing, for there are no chemicals to get into it, and in time …’ She drifted to a stop.
Bert was driving along lanes overhung with sycamores struggling to produce buds, and in the fields the snow had almost disappeared, with just the sha
dy areas harbouring remnants. The verges beneath the sycamores were dotted with dirt-stained clumps, and ice still coated the pools of water lying on the road.
Sarah stared out at the snowdrops huddled in the lee of some of the stone walls. ‘Spring’s on its way, girls, and if in a few days that hand doesn’t start healing proper, Viola, we’ll have something to say, and the mams’ll too. The Labour Exchange had better batten down the hatches, for they’ll be stormed, right, girls?’ The other two nodded, along with Mrs Oborne.
Sarah turned to Fran. ‘Me bum’s getting numb from all the jolting on these slats, and my ribs are getting a workout, too, but I haven’t heard you complaining yet. What’s the matter with you? Cat got your tongue?’ She whipped off her headscarf and her short blonde hair flew about in the draught from an open window above Maisie’s seat.
‘I just wish me head was numb too,’ Fran replied. She called down the bus, ‘Shut your window, Maisie, for the love of Mike. That draught’s cutting into my hangover like no one’s business.’
‘It’s broken,’ Maisie yelled back, ‘and I canna, that’s why I’ve got my muffler up over my head, not because I think it’s a good look. Isn’t that right, our Sandra?’
Sandra Young, who was sitting next to her, groaned. ‘Just stop your shouting. Me head’s about to explode.’
Just then, Bert called down the bus, ‘While I remember, you three – or should it be four, with Viola? Anyway, it’s The Factory Girls singers I want—’ The girls heard this much, but the noise from the others escalated and drowned the rest. Bert sounded the horn, twice, and yelled, ‘A bit of hush, if you don’t mind.’
The women fell silent until Mrs Oborne called, ‘Out with it then, our Bert, and we don’t take kindly to you hooting when we’ve heads fit to burst. Bliddy Stevie and his elderberry wine.’
